Gladius
by Lywinis
Summary: In the bleak future of Earth where Lucifer rules, angels are captured and forced to fight to the death in rings of holy fire. Castiel is captured, and regrets that he ever allowed Uriel to retrieve Dean Winchester from Hell. AU. No Pairings.
1. Capture

**Gladius **

**A Supernatural AU by Lywinis **

**(Original idea by astroize on Tumblr) **

**Chapter One**

* * *

The farmhouse was old, dusty with years of disuse, but Sam and Dean Winchester hadn't wavered from a target yet. Their connections were solid, their research thorough. This was the place. No vehicle was parked in the yard, and the paint had long since peeled away under the blistering summer sun of years past. The grass, however, was new, fresh and green while the rest of the plains were browning in the July heat.

"Hard to believe this one dared to show its face," said Dean around a mouth full of burger. "You'd think they didn't teach common sense up there."

"They don't, remember?" Sam took a swallow of his soda, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement. Both sets of eyes were fixed on the house, rotting away under the Nebraska sun. "All they teach is combat and how to be a condescending dickhead."

Dean snorted. The Impala was parked out of sight of the house behind a rolling spit of land. All they had to do was wait until they had their signal. Their bang sticks sat in the back seat, along with the ropes.

Their CB chirped. "Winchesters, the Eagle has landed."

Dean rolled his eyes and picked up the mic. "Shut the fuck up, Gomez."

Laughter echoed over the channel, and the brothers exited the car with gear in tow. It was time to go hunting. Dean shrugged his leather gloves on, flexing his fingers in the thick material. Better safe than sorry with the bang sticks, he knew. He loaded a phosphorus charge into the capsule and screwed it down tight, handing it to Sam. He did the same with another one, keeping it for himself.

"Right, I'll distract it, you tag it. Easier than a salt and burn." Dean flashed a grin at his little brother, hiding the uneasiness he felt. Few hunts were cut and dry these days, especially these. He hadn't forgotten how it felt, though, and the adrenaline coursed through his body as tension seeped into his shoulders.

"Yeah, like a salt and burn." Sam frowned at his brother's shaking hands and Dean forced them to stillness. They had been shaking a lot more in recent months, and Dean tried to keep it from Sam. Sam fetched the holy oil from the trunk of the Impala, and he helped Sam soak the rope and wind it into a loose coil. A small fire extinguisher joined it, and they turned toward the house.

Dean made his way up the rotting wooden porch steps while his brother jogged around to the back. He braced the bang stick against the wall of the house before rapping two knuckles against the door. Paint flaked away at the impact, floating down to his boots in a lazy swirl.

"Hello?" he called. "Is anyone in there? My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone."

No answer. He knocked again, harder. The sound of footsteps across the floorboards sounded, the groan of a dying man, and he wondered how stupid this thing actually was for half a moment before the door opened. A thin, disheveled man stood there in a trench coat and suit, his eyes an impossible blue against the glare of the Nebraska sun. His dark hair was messy, sticking up in ducktails and curls that followed no known pattern Dean had ever seen. His tie hung around his neck like an afterthought, limp against the sweat-stained dress shirt. Had he been clean and his suit unrumpled, he might have been called handsome.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice rusty from what sounded like disuse.

Dean put on his best winning smile. "Hi, my name's Rob Halford. My car's broken down, and I was wondering if I could use your phone?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible," he said. The door swung shut, only to be blocked by Dean's foot.

"Listen, man, I know it's not cool, but I really need to use your phone. It'll just take a second, and then I can be out of your, uh, lovely home and on my way. I just need to call a tow truck."

"I don't have a phone," the man said. "I don't need one."

"Well, that's all right. I just remembered I brought my cell with me, but it's dead. Can I borrow some juice?"

The man scowled, but Dean saw Sam in the shadows, creeping forward with bang stick in hand. He didn't betray his brother's presence, instead shifting his weight so the man would have to block the door with his body to prevent Dean's entrance. Sam was almost there…

The floorboard creaked under Sam's weight, and the angel whirled, stiff-arming the younger hunter. Sam went down with a grunt, poleaxed by the force behind the blow. Dean went for his bang stick, kicking the door open all the way. It shrieked off its hinges, clattering off the angel as he turned to Dean.

"Hunters," he growled.

"Yeah, we are." Dean readied his bang stick, palms sweaty in his gloves.

"Not many these days," said the angel, glancing down at Sam. "I don't want to kill you."

"Good for you. Not going to save you." Dean feinted to the left and the angel took the bait, lunging to the right to escape. Dean kneed it in the stomach.

It was like kicking a steel pole, but Dean ignored the spike of pain that lanced up his joints, instead working on pressing the angel back with jabs from the bang stick. The angel was quicker than most, light on his feet and wary, but Dean had him in sheer determination. He darted forward, and as the angel back-stepped, the hunter stumbled as a rotten floorboard gave way. The angel's hands snagged in Dean's t-shirt and lifted him off the ground. Dean struggled, but he was well aware of how strong angels were. He could hear his t-shirt tearing as the angel looked up at him with something like pity in its bright blue eyes. He wasn't getting out of this one.

There was a flash of brilliant chemiluminescence and Dean found himself on the floor as the angel curled in upon itself, screaming in agony. Sam tossed aside the spent bang stick and helped Dean up. The Winchesters watched the angel writhe and thrash upon the filthy floor, its trenchcoat flapping about its legs in a pair of shredded wings. The trench coat burned away, as did the dress coat and shirt beneath it. Sam sprayed it with the fire extinguisher, and the flames began to die.

The process had started, though, and Dean watched impassive as the angel suffered. Its back bowed upward, its shoulders and heels rooted to the floor as its grace was bound to its vessel. Its face twisted in pain as it howled its misery and loss to the mildewed ceiling. Sam looked away, hands clenched into fists. Dean didn't blame him; Sam still thought they were people. Dean knew better.

"Where'd you tag it?" asked Dean as he watched the angel's back draw up tight as a bow.

"I got him on the hip," said Sam, holding his ribs. He grunted, his breathing labored. "Think he broke something."

"Well, we'll fix that once we get it into the truck. Help me tie its hands."

They flipped the limp angel onto its front, Dean crossing its arms as Sam knotted the rope around the thin wrists.

"Why?" The angel was still conscious, and Dean gave a mental shake of his head at the creature's tenacity. Most of the ones they caught had passed out from the pain by now.

"Because it's what we do." He jerked the angel upright. "It's nothing personal."

It swayed on its feet for a moment, dizzy and confused. The angel looked at him, eyes red-rimmed and bleary. Then, it focused on him like he'd been painted with a laser. There was recognition there now.

"I know you," it said.

"No, you don't." Dean sighed. _Here we go_.

"Yes, I do." The angel wriggled against its bonds, struggling to get free. Sam grabbed it and forced its arms still. It was still focused on Dean's face. "You're the Righteous Man. You were supposed to stop it. You were _marked_, you were destined to stop it."

Dean ignored the statement. "These ropes are soaked in sacred oil. You so much as look at me or Sammy wrong and I will light you up like a Fourth of July barbecue, you got me?"

"Why didn't you stop it?" it asked again, sorrow drenching its voice in bedraggled feathers.

"Shut up," Dean said. "I don't have to answer to you."

The angel's head snapped forward before Sam or Dean could stop it, and Dean's world exploded into bright, delicious pain as the angel splattered his nose across his cheek. Dean punched the angel hard, rocking the creature back on its heels, and clutched the ruins of his nose. The angel had broken it good, and he could feel the cartilage shift under his fingers as he swore a blue streak.

The angel shook its head in shock. "You…hit me."

"Hurts, doesn't it, asshole? You're just shy of human now, and that means everything I do to you is going to hurt." Dean tipped his head back to slow the bleeding. Sam handed him a rag scrounged from the house, and he pressed it to his nose.

Dean tasted pennies, and he spat red onto the dusty floor. "I swear to - if Crowley didn't want you alive, I'd kill you myself and be done with it."

The angel swayed on its feet. "Hurts."

"Yeah, it will. We're not _even_ done." He glanced around. "Where the fuck is Gomez?"

"Truck's outside, Dean." Sam limped forward and tugged the angel along. It shuffled along behind him, weak and confused. Dean followed, picking up the bang sticks as he went.

Gomez grinned at them from the converted paddywagon. The demon wore a chemist from outer New York State as his preferred body. It was lean, fit and handsome with soft brown eyes and dark hair in a high widow's peak, but the smile the demon had on his face was anything but handsome. He hopped out of the truck and grabbed the angel by its hair, jerking it back so that its throat was exposed.

"Looks like he ground you into hamburger before you got him."

"Shut the fuck up, Gomez." Dean glared around the rag at the demon. "It still isn't as bad as the one you idiots tried to capture yourself. I'd love to see you sneak up on an angel."

The swarthy Italian meatsuit Gomez was wearing sneered, his eyes flashing to black sclera.

"Maybe I should tell Crowley that you're not cut out for hunting anymore, huh?"

"Maybe I should tell Crowley that you're the one who broke my nose?" The reliance on Crowley to put the fear of the divine in the demons that worked these jobs with them rankled. "Or you could always just get a dose of holy water in your next latte. You never know."

Gomez scowled, but he said nothing more, instead unlocking the back of the paddywagon to the Winchesters. They heaved the swaying angel into the back of the truck, and it landed on its chest with a pained cry.

"Why?" it asked again.

Dean didn't answer, just slammed the door shut. He helped Sam to the Impala as Gomez roared off in a snit. It's not like it mattered. They got it done, and that's what Crowley cared about. He put his baby in gear and ached for a shot of whiskey as he pulled onto the Nebraska highway back to base.

* * *

It was full dark when the truck stopped swaying. Castiel opened his eyes, looking around him in the shadows. He was in pain, searing pain from the burn of whatever had caught his hip. It was unlike anything he had ever felt since he had taken Jimmy Novak as his vessel. Now, though, Jimmy's presence in his mind had shrunken from a voice to a whisper that he had to strain to hear. He had managed to roll over onto his other hip, his arms still bound in the oil-soaked rope. The jostling ride and the pain in his hip had caused him to fade in and out of consciousness, and so he had no idea how far they had traveled or in which direction.

The heat and dust of the truck were another irritant, the grime caking his body itched and mingled with the sweat that ran from his vessel's pores. He ached everywhere else, another new sensation. He had never felt fatigue before. It was unsettling. The Righteous Man, Dean Winchester had called him 'just shy of mortal'. He didn't know how accurate that statement was, he just knew he _hurt_. He couldn't even summon the energy needed to transport himself out of the truck and away. Every time he tried, his hip lanced pain into his entire body, setting his nerves on fire with the same pain as when he had been branded by the younger Winchester.

Instead, he took stock of his situation. His eyes were still preternatural, and he could see everything in the shadows as well as if it were still daylight. His vessel's clothing, what was left of it, was charred beyond recognition. The pants held on by virtue of a belt that managed to keep together. His shoes and socks had melted in the wake of the fire; his feet were bare. His coat and jacket were gone, along with the shirt and tie beneath it, leaving him bare to the waist. The skin was unharmed beneath it, save for the fire in his hip. He offered Jimmy a silent apology - it had been his favorite suit, and he could feel the faint upset at the human's loss. He didn't understand the attachment to personal items, but Jimmy's memory revealed the loving hands of his wife smoothing the jacket across his shoulders, kissing his cheek before they went out. So, he supposed that an apology was necessary.

There were no burns, other than the searing brand on his hip. Castiel did not know how that was possible, but he was glad of it for the moment. He heard the crunch of footsteps outside the van, and willed himself to stillness. The keys rattled in the lock, and he tensed.

The doors creaked open, and a spotlight blinded him. He winced and flinched away to a chorus of laughter. His ankles were seized and he was dragged from the truck, hitting the dirt of the hard-packed courtyard with the whoosh of air leaving his lungs. Another new sensation, not being able to breathe. He struggled to get air into his lungs as the pack of demons circled them, the humans they wore leering down at him.

Just as sudden as they had appeared, they parted like oil on water. Castiel blinked the spots of light from his vision as air entered his lungs at last. A pair of shined patent leather shoes stood by his head, and he followed their owner's legs with his eyes until he met his face. A clever looking man, his hands behind his back, looked down at him with a critical expression. Dark hair, an expressive face, and eyes that could be darker than black in the light. His suit was impeccable, tailored to perfection, and he brushed a speck of imaginary lint from his sleeve before addressing the angel.

"Castiel," he said, and the vague British accent was soft on Castiel's ears. Most demons were harsh, brash and loud. The quiet ones radiated power without having to shout about it, and this one radiated plenty of power, demonic energy wafting from him in waves. Castiel had the feeling that it was for show, however. Someone who held himself like that often let his deeds do the talking instead of allowing his mere presence to intimidate.

"Angel of Thursday," the demon continued. "So happy you're able to join our little family. Name's Crowley. I run the games here. We'll get you all settled in. Be a good boy, and you'll be rewarded. Act out, and…well, it won't be pleasant for you."

He'd heard of this one. This one was bad news. He studied the demon's face through the pain of his hip and the spotlight in his eyes, ignoring the chatter of the lesser demons that surrounded them. This was between the two of them, and everyone there knew it.

"I'm an angel, you ass. I don't have a soul to sell. I don't make deals."

The smile that spread across Crowley's face was beatific, a row of perfect white teeth. Pain exploded in Castiel's stomach as the demon delivered a vicious kick to his solar plexus. Castiel heaved, retching bile as he gasped for air again. A hand fisted in his hair and jerked his head back so that he was looking Crowley in the face.

"No, I don't think you understand. This isn't a deal, it's indentured servitude. You belong to me now, until I say otherwise, and then I'll end you like any of my other animals. We'll take you out back by the woodshed and put a bullet in that almost-mortal head of yours."

Crowley held up a revolver, one that was familiar to all supernatural beings. The Colt glittered cold in the spotlight, and he pulled the hammer back, the click of the mechanism locking into place loud in the sudden silence of the square. All eyes had locked onto Crowley, and he pointed the gun at Castiel.

Castiel braced for death.

It never came.

Crowley kicked him again, his foot connecting with the searing pain in the angel's hip. Castiel howled, curling up on himself.

Crowley turned around. "Winchesters! Where the hell are you?"

"Right here." Castiel struggled to look around, still gasping for air, and saw the scuffed brown boots of the Righteous Man stop next to his head. The larger boots of his brother joined them, and he looked up to see the younger one giving him a mournful look. He returned his attention to Crowley to block out the human's pity.

"Eurgh, you two look beaten to hell." Crowley clicked the hammer back down on the Colt, replacing it in his tailored suit jacket. "Sloppy work doesn't get you bonuses, Dean, you know that."

"He jumped us," said Dean. "We almost had the drop on him."

"Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and government work, boys. Go get Choir Boy here cleaned up, then see to yourselves. You know how Lucifer gets if he sees Gigantor hurt. He'd mope for a month."

Dean's jaw flexed, but he knelt and grabbed Castiel's arm. "Don't make trouble, there won't be any trouble."

Castiel remained limp, and the two brothers hoisted him between them and dragged him into the dark.

* * *

The hallway was concrete and bars, echoing footsteps and the clanking ratchet of the cell door sliding open. It was dim, light slanting through the high windows above the cell block, but Castiel could see well enough to know that this was his new prison. He still ached, but did not resist as the Winchesters dragged him along.

They shoved him in a cell, iron bars carved with warding sigils limned in silver, layers of precaution spelled out in meticulous Enochian. He stumbled in and sank upon the cot, looking around him. There was a mattress, thin and hard against the cot, a sink, and a toilet in the six by six square foot enclosure. The cell was grimy, dirt gathering in the corners and along the bottom of the walls. Water dripped somewhere close.

They weren't gentle, but provided him a change of clothes - a cotton tank top, rubber soled slippers, and a loose pair of cotton pants, as well as a bar of soap, a rag, and a towel.

"Use 'em," Dean said, tossing them on the bed next to where Castiel sat. "Chow time is at dawn and dusk. You don't like it, you don't eat."

He turned to go, avoiding the intense gaze of Castiel's eyes. It was Sam Winchester who locked the cage, his brother limping down the hallway toward the door at the end. He looked through the bars at Castiel for a moment. Castiel met his gaze, curious that the younger brother would take an interest where the older would not. The rumor around the garrison had been that the younger one would follow the older into hell, and vice versa, but there was obvious remorse on Sam Winchester's face.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said.

Castiel said nothing, the ache in his hip a constant. He watched Sam follow his brother, holding his ribs and shuffling out of the room. Castiel looked down at the floor, shifting on the hard cot. The door slid shut with the grinding of more metal, leaving the cell block in silence. The water continued its steady, monotonous drip, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts. He rose and turned on the water in the sink, grimacing at the rusty red slurry that poured from the spigot. He let it run until it was clear, then soaped up the rag and set to work cleaning the dust and grime from his face and hands. He rinsed off, patting himself dry with the towel, then turned to the clothing. The cotton was soft enough, but he didn't bother with the shoes, instead choosing to remain barefoot as he paced around the cell.

He hummed a resonance, something he did while he was thinking; something he had always done without noticing unless one of his brothers and sisters pointed it out. Enochian in its purest form, sound without words, clarity of intent in the tone instead of in words, which were bulky and prohibitive.

A resonance from across the hallway answered him. His head snapped up, his eyes widening. He hadn't heard that voice in years, not since the Great Fall.

"Who is there?" he asked, his hands on the bars as he swept the cells looking for the source of it. He knew who it was, he could have told anyone who it was with his eyes closed. No two angels had the same frequency, each different in tone and subtlety.

"Even after all this time, Cassy, you haven't forgotten me, have you?" The figure stepped into view, and Castiel's eyes widened.

"Balthazar?" he asked, not daring to believe it. His vessel had been wiry and muscular, but now the flesh was sallow, the chest sunken. Balthazar gave a small smile, a shadow of his quirky grin that was signature to his brother. "We all thought you were dead."

"Not quite, just MIA." The other angel rested his forearms on the crossbar of his cell. "What in the world possessed you to set foot on this forsaken mudball? After we lost? You know Heaven is safer."

"It isn't," Castiel said. "There is infighting, disorder and disobedience in the ranks. The only archangels left vie amongst themselves for control. No one is strong enough to keep order, not after Michael was captured. He was the only one we knew for sure that Lucifer had taken."

"Lucifer has taken a lot more." Balthazar's eyebrows drew down in a scowl. "Have you heard what they're going to do to you yet?"

Castiel frowned.

"Obviously not. They're animals, Castiel. They're going to butcher us like animals, too. We're the prize pitbulls in Crowley's little dogfight." He swept a hand at the door the Winchesters had disappeared through. "Uriel should have left that one down there."

"Uriel failed, it's true," Castiel said, reluctant to agree with Balthazar about the human being Uriel had pulled away from Alastair in hell. "But no one could have forseen -"

"We have prophets for a reason, Castiel, don't give me that bunk. Uriel was one of the first to be captured."

Castiel frowned again. Uriel had been close, even though he had been more prone to violence than Castiel himself.

"We were all captured and marked. Where did they get you?"

Castiel winced and shifted the weight off his hip.

"I thought so. Have you taken a look at it?" Balthazar rolled his arm over, revealing the glossy pink of scar tissue on his left forearm. Raised letters, the elegant script spelling out hatred instead of his father's word.

"_Allar bab_," Castiel said, looking down. _To bind up power_. Is that what had been done to him?

Balthazar nodded, answering his unspoken question. "They've bound your grace to your vessel. As far as I know, there's no way to reverse it. If you're obnoxious, you get more brands."

He rolled his other arm over, and in the mirrored flesh, Castiel read another phrase.

"_Adrpan caosg_."

_Cast down upon the Earth._

Balthazar turned his forearms back over. There was another stripe of raised flesh across the top of his wrist.

_Amma_. Cursed.

Castiel bowed his head. "I am sorry, Balthazar."

"Not as sorry as you will be. You haven't been subjected to what Alastair can do yet. Spend half an hour on his table and you'll be begging for the brand." Balthazar's face was grim in the half-light of the cell block. "That's not even the worst of it. Crowley is all business, you see. He keeps his horde happy by staging pit fights in the arena outside. Circles you in a ring of holy fire, forces you to fight your brothers. Two angels enter, one angel leaves."

Castiel's jaw tightened. "You mean…?"

"Yes, he's forcing us to kill each other for sport."

Castiel leaned his forehead against the cool bars. The Enochian script didn't cause pain, just a small tingle of discomfort at the back of his mind that he knew would only get worse if he tried to free himself.

"You're stuck here, Castiel, sorry to say."

"How many?" he asked.

"Since I've been here? Sixty. Since Michael was captured? Who knows." Balthazar gave a half-shrug. "If you get chosen to fight, at least you stand a chance. You get chosen by Alastair? Not so lucky."

Castiel nodded. "When are the fights?"

"When Lucifer feels like it." The curt reply said all Castiel needed to know. Lucifer, their fallen brother, torturing them for his own amusement. Castiel had never interacted with Lucifer much while he was still in heaven, but the thought of his brother running a ring of torture for the amusement of demons was almost too much to bear.

"Who else is here?"

"Michael, as you know. Scuttlebutt is they're tracking down Gabriel, but he's been long dead. None of us have told them, I think, but who knows. Zachariah was caught early, he went to capture Dean Winchester and was tagged instead. Gazardiel, Zuriel, Hadraniel, Iofiel, Camael, Rehael. Countless others of our brothers and sisters live in this complex. They send the Winchesters most of the time, if they want them alive. No one suspects the humans."

Castiel shook his head. "All captured?"

"Captured or killed." Balthazar pushed away from the bars, moving to his own cot. "You had better get some rest. You'll need to get used to sleeping, Castiel. You're the closest thing to human that an angel can be without Falling."

Castiel lay down, his hands behind his head as he stared at the damp, moldy ceiling. The harsh reality of it was crushing, suffocating, but he took a breath and blanked his mind, allowing himself a moment of clarity. He exhaled into the darkness, fatigue taking hold faster than he had expected. Being mortal, or close to it, was taking its toll.

"Balthazar," he said.

"What is it, Castiel?"

"I mourned your death."

There was a silence for a moment. "So did I."

* * *

A/N: So I accidentally a kickboxing!Castiel AU first chapter. The updates will be slow, as I will only be writing fic when the mood takes me, but it will be finished. That said, I am enjoying this far too much. More to come. This won't be Destiel, even though I know Astroize ships it hard. I can't write a lot of SPN ships, and when I do they come out awkward. (Look at _Kairos_, seriously.) But I will do my best to tell an entertaining story nonetheless, Constant Readers.

More to come.

Lywinis


	2. Welcome to the Garrison

**Gladius **

**A Supernatural AU by Lywinis **

**(Original idea by Astroize on tumblr) **

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Dean hissed as Meg set his nose to rights. The demon tutted with a smirk as she jerked the broken cartilage straight and turned to Izra'il. The bound angel frowned as he studied the older Winchester's broken nose.

"It will heal correct, but I cannot heal it completely. It will be tender for a few days."

"Just do it," Dean said. The angel shrugged and laid his hand on Dean's sweating forehead. The blinding pain in his nose ebbed, and he took a deep breath as the edge went away. He downed the shot of whiskey in front of him, shaking his head at the burn. It ached, but he could breathe through his nose again.

"Sam?" he asked. He'd passed his brother off to be healed first, as always.

"His ribs were just cracked. A little bruising, but he'll be fine. I sent him for bed rest."

"Good." He poured himself another shot of whiskey, turning his back on Meg. The demon snorted and tossed her black hair over her shoulder, moving to wipe down the tables in the rest of the bar. She was the Handler, though, and all healing went through her or not at all. He ignored her otherwise, much to her amusement and annoyance.

The angel Izra'il was an odd one, taking to captivity almost like a duck to water. Dean had never seen anything like it. The angel's vessel was a yogi who had found enlightenment, or so Izra'il claimed, and he always dressed in soft silk robes. Dark mocha skin, hair in tight braids bound in colorful beads, he wore his brand high on his cheek beneath his right eye like a badge of honor. Of all the captive angels in the complex, he was one of five to walk free of a holding cell. The other four were prizes of the high ranking demons, kept chained at their feet as a status symbol. Izra'il belonged to no one, or to Crowley, if one were to ask. Dean didn't ask.

_Dobix_, fall. It was etched onto his cheek by Alastair himself, or so the rumor went. Dean had never had to catch Izra'il. The angel had gone under the knife of his own free will; just walked in, back straight and head high, and demanded a chance to serve.

He'd become something of a well-liked pet among the demons, a novelty to be passed around. Crowley kept him around for much more practical purposes. Izra'il could keep the Winchesters going longer, and that was worth a lot to Crowley as well. Not many of the angels they branded retained their healing powers and fewer still would heal anyone the demons told them to of their own free will.

Dean grimaced again, his hand curling around the shot glass as he chased his shot with a swallow of beer. He and Sam were pets, too, just of the more mortal variety. It chafed, rankled on him harder than anything in his entire life, save for maybe Uriel. His only consolation in that regard was that Uriel was locked up, a regular in the pit fights Crowley staged.

He'd caught Uriel by himself. Tagged him good and dragged him screaming to Crowley's feet once the wind began to change in Lucifer's favor.

He took another shot of whiskey.

He looked up to find Izra'il watching him, the angel's eerie pale eyes fixated on him. Dean scowled. He was never sure how much the angel knew, but he wasn't one to ask.

"Your liver was failing." It wasn't a question.

"And?"

"I have repaired it."

"You want a cookie?" Dean took another swallow of his beer.

"You would have developed cirrhosis in two months. Another four, and you would have had jaundice in the eyes, discoloration in the mouth. In five you would be having violent seizures every time you didn't have a drink."

Dean set his bottle on the table. "You should have left well enough alone, then."

"You would have died screaming, and in incredible pain." Izra'il shook his head. "Your brother still needs you."

"Don't tell me how to take care of my brother." Dean's scowl deepened to the expression he wore when something was about to die.

"I am not. I am instructing you on how to care for yourself." The angel rose, the beads in his braids clacking together. "Eat healthier, drink less, and I will not have to fix your liver again."

The angel left, his robes swishing about his ankles. Dean finished the beer and took the whiskey bottle with him as he made his way back to his room for the evening. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

"There you are, Sam."

_Right on time_, Sam thought with the same internal shudder. Same time every day when he was in the complex, _he_ would find him. He looked up from the book he was reading as the archangel leaned against the door jamb.

"Research?"

"I can read for pleasure," he said as he stuck a bookmark in his cheap dimestore fantasy paperback. "What can I do for you?"

Lucifer's vessel, Nick, still sported the bloody raw patches around his eyes and mouth, as well as the peeling skin on his forearms. It seemed to have slowed, even stopped with Lucifer's razing of the earth, however. He looked the same as when Sam had last seen him in the Elysian Fields hotel. Sam hadn't asked, and the archangel hadn't offered an explanation.

"Oh, you know what you can do for me," Lucifer said, the cracked lips of his vessel turning up in a smile. Despite the degradation, the human body had held up well for the length of time the archangel had been using it. Four years, six months, if Sam's math was right. "You've been remarkably resistant so far, though."

"You've done everything you set out to do. You don't need me." Sam's voice was patient, as though speaking to a small child to make them understand. "If I consent, there isn't anything you can do that you haven't already done. Your war is over. What the Croates haven't killed, we've herded into camps for cheap labor and for meat suits for the demons when someone wants a hairstyle change. We're just fighting the final skirmishes now."

"You're refusing out of habit, Sam." Lucifer's voice was chiding, though his smile was still the same kind one he always wore when talking to the younger Winchester. "Surely you know that the end can't come unless you say 'Yes'?"

"I know," said Sam. "But I don't want to say it."

"See, this is why I like you. You're stubborn, and stick to your guns. I can relate." Lucifer crossed his arms and assumed a musing pose. "I suppose I can wait a little longer. After all, you _will_ say yes eventually."

"I have no reason to, but if I do, you'll be the first to know." Sam picked up his book again and opened the dog-eared paperback to where he had left off. The ritual was over. Lucifer would leave now.

"Crowley tells me you caught another of my brothers today."

Sam looked up again, his eyebrow arching. "Yes. Name of Castiel."

"Good kid, far too serious for his own good. I'd bet on him, if it were sporting of me to bet on the fights. Put ten on him for me, would you?"

"Doesn't me being your true vessel mean that it's unsporting for me to bet on them, too?" Sam propped his feet up on the scarred coffee table in his room.

"At least give the kid a shot in the ring."

"I don't train them. That's Dean's area of expertise."

Lucifer chuckled. "We'll talk again."

"I'm sure." Sam opened his book and dropped his eyes to the page. "We do every day, after all."

Lucifer's laughter echoed down the hall as he walked away, and Sam tried to concentrate on his reading. It was a long time before his eyes would do anything but slide across the page, however. Somehow dimestore fantasy wasn't enough to take his mind off of things anymore. He sighed and tossed the book on the table as he left the room to find his brother.

* * *

Castiel awoke to the sound of keys rattling in the cell block's main door. His mind was groggy with sleep, another unusual, new sensation. He sat up, scrubbing the sleep from his face, and yawned. Footsteps sounded down the hallway, and stopped in front of his cell. He looked up to find Dean regarding him through the bars.

"Chow time." He slid a tray through the slot, a couple of plain peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a plate coupled with an apple and a carton of juice in a cheery, colorful carton greeted Castiel.

He picked up the tray, looking around him at the cell again. Someone had come in the night and taken the remnants of the clothing he had worn before. His stomach growled, and he picked up one of the sandwiches. He bit into it, and his hunger manifested in full. He crammed half the sandwich in his mouth, not stopping to chew.

He clawed at his throat in a sudden, raw movement. He couldn't breathe, something was stuck, and he choked on the thick mouthful of peanut butter. He gagged, his nostrils flaring as his heart hammered in his panic.

The keys rattled in the door to his cell, and the metal grating was flung back as Dean barged into the room. Strong, sinewy arms circled his chest, and he felt them jerk up into his diaphragm. He coughed, the ball of bread and peanut butter coming loose as he spat it up onto the floor of his cell.

Castiel sat, his hands dangling between his knees as he coughed up more, breathing hard.

"Idiot," Dean said. He pushed the tray out of the way and moved out of the cell, locking the door behind him. "Don't eat it all at once. Jesus, it's like feeding a toddler."

He moved down the hallway, tugging a cart of similar trays along behind him. Castiel watched Dean shove more food to the recipients, and picked up his sandwich. He took smaller bites this time, wary of the sticky peanut butter, and finished the first one before tearing open the small carton of juice. It was too sweet, but he downed it and opened the spigot wider so that he could fill it at his sink.

He chewed a bite of his apple, his stomach growling still. He had not counted the days it had been since his vessel had eaten, but he knew that he had gone without sustenance for quite a while. Jimmy Novak had been thin, a picky eater who opted for a hamburger more often than was healthy, but this sated Castiel enough that he wasn't ravenous.

He was working through the second sandwich when he heard the footsteps. He looked up, expecting Dean to return for the tray, but instead locked eyes with Crowley. He and the younger Winchester brother stood outside his cell, and the demon looked him over with a musing expression.

"Alastair said he wanted first pick of the new batch," Crowley said, his hands behind his back as he regarded the captive angel. "With as much trouble as this one has given you and your brother, I'm inclined to hand him over."

Sam shook his head. "That's not what _he_ said. He said that if he were a betting man, he'd place bets on Castiel."

"If he were a man at all, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation," said Crowley, his tone chiding. "Still, this is the first time he's taken an interest in anything besides you since we chained Michael up for his amusement. How long before he's ready?"

"Couldn't say," said Sam. He knitted his brows as he looked at Castiel, and Castiel met his eyes with a piercing stare. "Maybe six months if he doesn't fight us every step of the way."

"If it did that, it wouldn't be an angel," said the older Winchester, joining his brother and the demon outside the bars. He leaned his shoulder against it, avoiding Castiel's gaze. "It nearly choked to death on a peanut butter sandwich, how the hell would it survive hand to hand combat?"

"He's been fighting a lot longer than he's been eating, Dean." Sam's eyebrows remained knitted over concerned eyes. "My question is: why does the boss want to see him fight?"

Crowley shrugged. "Why does he do anything? He's prone to flights of fancy."

Castiel took another bite of his sandwich. He watched the Winchesters more than Crowley. Crowley was the known evil. The Winchesters, however, had always been unpredictable. Perhaps he could turn that to his advantage.

"He's a wily one, that's for sure," Crowley said, cutting his eyes over to Dean. "Never seen one get the best of you and your moose."

Dean snorted, biting back whatever comment that was about to jump to his lips by folding his arms and looking down.

Crowley gave a blasé shrug. "Fine. Six months, more if he's resistant. I expect updates on his progress."

The demon stepped away from the bars and smoothed the lapels of his suit before leaving the Winchesters alone in front of Castiel's cell. The angel looked at his captors, half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich dangling forgotten from his fingers.

"What do you think?" Sam asked, turning to his brother.

"I think we should holy oil the lot of them," Dean said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Since that's not an option, we give it boxing lessons, I guess."

"Shouldn't he already know how to fight?" Sam asked. "He is an angel."

"It's not used to being human," said Dean.

"Capoeira." Balthazar's voice. The brothers whipped around to see the angel leaning on his bars.

"No one asked you." Dean sneered, and Balthazar rolled his eyes.

"And I won't see my brother die because you won't utilize his full potential. Just because your precious Bobby ate dirt on a hunt is no reason to-"

Dean was across the floor in an instant, the soft cotton of Balthazar's shirt in his hands as he slammed the weakened angel against the bars of his cage. Balthazar's head bounced against the metal, the skin splitting above his eyebrow. Blood poured down the angel's face, mingling in his beard as he grinned at Dean, his eyes full of malice.

"You don't say that name to me," Dean spat, his hands fisted in Balthazar's shirt. "You don't **ever** say that name."

"Dean!" Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder and pulled him away from the bar. Balthazar staggered back to his cot, swiping at the blood from his split eyebrow.

Sam shook his brother. "You can't lose it like that, man. You know Balthazar just wants you angry."

"Oh, you simple monkeys," Balthazar said. "I mean it, you never see anything but the banana dangled in front of you."

He wiped the blood from his eyes, wincing as he called up enough power to clot the wound. Dean paced the cell block, his face a dire mask of anger. Castiel realized he had darted to the bars of the cage, was squeezing them; he backed down before they could notice.

"What do you mean, Balthazar?" Sam asked.

"I mean that if he goes in expecting to duke it out like a prizefighter, he'll die before he even throws a punch," Balthazar said. "Give him something light, something that will make him quick."

"Capoeira."

"Exactly. He'll be dodging as much as he's hitting, and it focuses on quick, brutal takedowns. The crowd will love it, and so will Crowley. The demon is predictable, at least when it comes to making money. He loves a flashy show, and Capoeira is one of the flashiest."

"Why stick your neck out now?" Dean asked. "You watched all of the others die. You didn't shed a single tear."

"Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean I didn't mourn, Bubbles," said Balthazar. "You don't know what it's like to feel their grace shredding. If all you hairless apes could feel it when one of your own died, there would be a lot less war."

"You didn't answer my question," said Dean. "Why now?"

"Because Castiel actually stands a chance at this," said the angel, his lip curling. "He could become good at it, and that will make your boss happy. If that happens, we might even get cable."

"Watch your mouth, or I turn you over to Alastair again." Dean folded his arms and glanced back at Castiel. "You ever seen this Capybara stuff?"

"Capoeira," said Sam. "I can find some videos on the internet, I'm sure."

"Show them to me," said Castiel. "I will learn."

"It's a martial art," said Sam. "It takes more than just watching to learn."

"Maybe for a human," said Balthazar.

"Sam, do it. If Nutter Butter here thinks it can learn by watching, who are we to argue?" Dean shrugged and strolled away. "I'm tired of Crowley's bullshit, and I'm not playing second fiddle to these winged monkeys anymore. Just one more angel we have to mop off the floor when Michael destroys him."

"Michael never fights anymore, Dean," Sam said, but he followed his brother out, returning a few minutes later with a television on a cart. He fiddled with his laptop, hooking wires and cords into it with a furrowed brow.

He turned to Castiel. "Are you sure about this?"

Castiel nodded.

Sam's face was skeptical, but he pressed play on the video. The television screen came to life, and the sound of drumbeats filled the air. A pounding beat that soon sped up, it made Castiel's heart pound in time as he watched the men spring onto the mats. They swayed, back and forth, as though they were striking cobras, each watching their opponent for weaknesses. A burst of speed, and they leapt into action, a flurry of kicks and punches, elbow and knee strikes, as well as graceful bends and dodges.

"It certainly is flashy," said Sam, watching.

"That's the point. It's not just about pit fighting, it's about winning the crowd over." Balthazar leaned against the bars of his cell. "What your brother doesn't realize is that Castiel was a lieutenant. He trained a lot of us in hand to hand combat. Hell, he trained _me_."

The angel smiled at the memory. "If anyone could beat Crowley at his own game, it's Castiel."

Castiel watched the deadly dance for a few moments longer, his head tilted to the side. He looked down at himself.

"Where do we start?" he asked.

"Well, first you're going to have to build up muscle," said Balthazar. "I'm sure the jailers can provide you with the diet you need."

Sam nodded, deep in thought. "Protein, whole carbs, the works. We've done it before. He's skinny, so he'd need more calorie intake."

"Then you shouldn't need my help," said Balthazar. "You have the free weight room, show him how it's done."

"We have six months," said Sam. "Will it be enough?"

"Castiel is stubborn," the angel replied, looking at his brother, who was already swaying on the balls of his feet as he watched the fighting. "It should be more than enough."

Sam watched the newest angel on the roster give the air a few tentative punches, and had to wonder if Balthazar was right.

* * *

A/N: I promise I'm going somewhere with this. Somewhere AMAZING. It hit me earlier this morning and that's why I've been writing instead of sleeping. :I I have it all written down and everything, a loose outline, but I never write from anything scripted, as most of you know.

Yes, my updates are slow, slow enough to be concerning for those of you used to my update schedule. 7.5 hours a day, five days a week are no longer my own, and so I must make do. I will finish this, but it's slowed to a crawl. I also have the professional writing stuff to keep up with as well, if you follow my tumblr, you know all about that.

That said, enjoy this chapter, and another one will be along soon, Constant Readers.

Lywinis


	3. Ring of Fire

**Gladius **

**A Supernatural AU by Lywinis **

**(Original idea by Astroize on tumblr) **

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Castiel swayed on the balls of his feet, letting the rhythm of the music that poured from the boombox speakers dictate his pace. He circled the sandbag, his body in constant motion as he closed in. The drums began a slow, rolling beat, circling higher and higher in tempo as he swept forward, judging the distance between himself and his target. His heart hummed in his chest, his thin body drenched in sweat that rolled down his back and caused the tank he wore to stick to his skin. His hands, wrists, ankles and feet were wrapped in reinforcing bandages, supporting his knuckles and the weaker joints. He might not be all mortal, but he was mortal enough that Sam insisted he avoid injury.

He gauged the distance again, his eye critical as his feet moved of their own accord. He'd been listening to the music since day one; the rhythm was more for show and to keep him on balance than it was for any real instruction. Still, his head bobbed the slightest bit as he flexed his muscular legs and leapt high into the air. He could feel the faint, ghostly beat of his wings as he did, lending him enough of his former power to grant him a higher jump than a human. He spun in the air, his heel coming down on the sandbag with a sickening thump.

The seams of the bag split, bursting out in a cloud of dust as he sprang back. His knee lashed out, connecting with the second sandbag hanging by a rope twenty feet to his left. It swung in a wide arc, twisting on its rope until his elbow struck it, and then it too exploded into a puff of sand and burlap.

The music reached a pounding crescendo as he landed, then sprang again, bringing his heels down on the final sandbag, this one much larger than the others. He hit with a solid thwack and rolled backward, pushing off with his palms and landing on his feet once more. He rolled forward, bringing his heel around in a sweeping kick and knocked the bag to its side. In another moment he was airborne once more, spinning into another punishing heel drop. He leapt away, landing at his starting point before turning and surveying the damage.

All three bags lay in ruins, piles of sand and heavy burlap scattered about the ring. The music stopped with an abrupt click, and he turned. He had an audience. Crowley stood there with Sam, the smaller demon bringing his hands together in a slow clap. Sam looked uncomfortable, and he wondered how long the master of the games had been there with his handler. Sam didn't seem to like the demons much, which was understandable after Castiel had turned around one afternoon during training to find Lucifer speaking to Sam.

He didn't have to get close enough to hear them to know what they were speaking about; the shake of Sam's head and the subtle flare of power from Lucifer said enough. Lucifer still wanted his intended vessel. Sam still said no. It was a telling play of body language, and he turned back around before anyone had noticed.

Now, however, Crowley gestured Castiel over. Reluctant as he was to obey, Castiel moved to the edge of the ring to speak with them. The master of the games looked him over with a critical eye. Castiel met his stare with one of his own, knowing his gaze to be unsettling to most.

Crowley seemed to be immune, meeting the angel's eye with a bland smile. "You're looking fit, Castiel. Training going well?"

"It's eating like a horse," Dean said, joining them on the platform above the ring. He glanced down at Castiel, then back at Crowley. "Strong, though, stronger than most."

"You just never know with those brands," said Crowley with a nod and a sigh. "You get lucky, and one angel in five comes out with all faculties intact. The rest are mental, completely mortal, or dead. Shame, but it's the most effective way of culling the herd."

"Dead?" Castiel's voice was low, but Crowley's eyes snapped to him. The horror there seemed to delight the demon.

"Oh yes, some angels can't stand to have their feathers plucked. The shock of it just mauls them," he said. "We must have killed hundreds before we got the Words right, even with your brother's help."

Castiel started forward, but his hip flared with pain, and his leg gave out from underneath him. He dropped to the ground with a grunt, his arms trembling as he fought to keep upright.

"Crowley," he said, his voice a growl.

"Oooh, he does have some fight in him," the demon said, his tone as smooth as silk. "Excellent. Is he ready?"

Sam shrugged. "Depends on where you want to start him. He can't fight main ring, but he could open."

The younger Winchester's lips twisted in disdain as he hopped down into the ring to help Castiel to his feet. His hands were gentle, and Castiel leaned on the larger man as the pain in his hip dulled to a low roar. Crowley smirked.

"I forgot to mention," he said, inspecting his nails for a moment. "There's a drop of my blood mixed in with the phosphorus used to brand you. If you disobey me, or make a move toward me in anger, that brand will light you up like a burning bush. I wouldn't test it again."

Castiel bared his teeth, and Crowley chuckled.

"You get him ready for next week, Moose. We'll see how he does. I've invested quite a bit in making sure he performs to standard. See that he does." He snapped his fingers at Dean. "Come on, I've got a list of names for Alastair."

Castiel watched as Dean fell into step behind Crowley, the set of his shoulders betraying everything. The Righteous Man chafed with his neck under the yoke of such evil. It was only fitting. He pondered it as Sam led him to a bench and helped him sit.

"You shouldn't bait him," Sam said, fetching a bottle of water and handing it to him.

"I shouldn't even be here," he replied, unscrewing the cap with a vicious twist and draining half of it in long, measured swallows. "I should have died honorably, in combat. I should not be like this."

He swept a hand down at himself, bound to his vessel and not-quite mortal.

"That could still be arranged," Sam said, plopping down onto the seat next to him. He scrubbed a hand across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "You could always throw the first fight, step across the ring as soon as they light it."

Castiel turned to look at him, brows knit.

"We had a couple suicides. They'd rather kill themselves than work for demons." Sam shrugged. "I can't control you, not if you don't want me to. Once you're in the ring, you're on your own."

Castiel considered it. "Why would you help me?"

"I don't like it here anymore than you do," Sam said. "We lost, though. We fought, and we fought, but we lost. The least I can do is mess with their plans, a little bit anyway."

The angel was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. Sam Winchester was, by all accounts, just as stubborn as his brother. He'd watched them, for a time, before the garrison had called him away to other duties and Uriel had taken over. He'd seen both brothers fight tooth and nail to survive in the world that existed outside most human's senses. Sam was capable and hardy, with size and strength where his brother was sheer tenacity and anger-fueled. The brothers Winchester were survivors, if nothing else.

Castiel saw the bags underneath Sam's eyes. He was tired, the strain of living in the compound lining his face. He looked fifty instead of thirty in that brief moment, his face sagging in weariness.

"Why didn't you say yes?" he asked. Sam's eyes opened, and he met Castiel's gaze.

"Would you?" Sam leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the bright blue of the sky. "We thought we could win it. Just like everyone else thought we could. Dean didn't say yes, and he knocked some sense into me when I was about to cave."

Castiel looked at the ground, his hands dangling between his knees. "And you're being kept here too, as pets. Because Lucifer wants you, and he knows you wouldn't come without your brother."

"You got it." Sam's chuckle was low, but he didn't sound surprised. "Never figured my family for celestial importance before all this. We just thought bad things happened to good people."

Castiel gave a slow nod. "We all knew your role, to some extent. We knew what you were destined for."

"Figures." He didn't sound bitter, just resigned. "I still won't say yes, though. Point of pride now, I guess."

"He needs you to complete his domination of Earth," Castiel said. "Without his true vessel, he can't exert his full power. He's leashed."

Sam sat forward, and Castiel looked at him again. His eyes were narrowed, focused on him. "You're saying he's stuck in his vessel like you are?"

"Not like me," he replied. "He can leave the vessel if he wants to, but he isn't capable of his full range of power. He needs you, and your bloodline that's been prepared for him. He can't fulfill his side of the prophecy without you."

Sam's lips thinned. "Then it's good that I didn't say yes."

"It is." Castiel rose and went to fetch more sand bags. "You're stronger than you think. You hold power over Lucifer himself, so long as you don't give consent."

Sam didn't reply; the music restarted, and Castiel began to sway to the beat as he took his place again.

* * *

Dean shoved another pallet of laundry to the end of the hallway, the cart squeaking as he made his way down the cell block. He passed Castiel's empty cell, and glanced across at Balthazar's cell to find the angel watching him. He felt the familiar chill run down his spine as their eyes locked; Balthazar always seemed to know more than he let on.

"What are you staring at?" Dean's voice was little more than a growl.

"A hairless ape," Balthazar said, its voice snappish. The angel paced his cell with difficulty, the cuffs of its overlong cotton pants brushing the floor behind its heels. It rolled its shoulders before fixing Dean with another chilling stare. "Is Castiel being trained properly?"

"What do you care? You're not getting out of there, and if I didn't have to get in there to change out your sheets every week, I'd have soldered the door shut a long time ago." Dean shook his head and opened the empty cell that housed the newest angel on the roster. He stripped Castiel's bed, tossing the sheets in the hamper before turning to Balthazar.

"Arms through the bars." Dean pulled out the cuffs, clicking them open.

"No." Balthazar gave him a small, feral smile. "You'll answer me before I do."

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face in exasperation. "Your buddy has taken to swaying without a beat, leaving me to think Castiel is as nutty as you are, except its bats are all dancing the chacha instead of roosting in the belfry."

Balthazar, to his surprise, stuck its wrists through the bars of the cell. Dean snapped on the handcuffs, making sure they were tight before he opened the door.

"Surprised you care so much," he said, stripping the bed. Balthazar's back was to him, but he could see the line of tension that traced down the angel's spine as he turned with an armful of the soiled sheets.

"I promise you, Castiel is my dearest friend, and you would never understand my motives." Balthazar said. "He'll be fighting soon. I want him to be ready."

"It's none of your business." Dean shrugged and snapped the new sheets over the mattress. "When the fight happens, you won't be there to watch."

The handcuffs clicked against the bars as Balthazar turned to face Dean as best as the angel could manage. "No, but if he dies, I'm holding you personally responsible. You won't like me if Castiel doesn't survive. Not even Alastair will keep me from you."

Dean repressed a shudder at the mention of the elder demon. "Why do you care?"

"You've asked me that several times now, and I keep telling you that you wouldn't understand." Balthazar sighed and pressed its forehead against the bars. "Imagine if it were your brother out there, fighting for his life."

Dean swallowed, pushing down the instinctive panic that the thought of Sammy in danger caused to well up, hot and clenching and terrifying.

"It would never happen," he said, and the ferocity in his voice was terrible, even to his own ears. "I'd kill them all. They'd have to go through me to get to Sammy."

"Then you do understand," said Balthazar. "When you branded me, you crippled me. I can't fight, I can't protect my brother. Which is why I'm relying on you to do it for me."

Dean shook his head as he relocked the cell door. He unsnapped the cuffs and watched Balthazar limp back to its cot. The swayback walk the angel had was something Dean had never really looked at before; it was painful to watch, and he turned away, stuffing the restraints back into the cart.

The angel had been crippled by an overenthusiastic Alastair, the razor's edge of punishment that had stepped over the line. Tendons snapped and stretched beyond even Izra'il's ability to heal, scarred beyond reason. Kept them hidden in the loose cotton legs of his pants, but Dean had seen them, knew they were there.

Crowley kept Balthazar around for his amusement, enjoying the angel's acerbic sense of humor where most other demons would have put it out of its misery. Perhaps that was the reason why Balthazar was still kicking. Misery loved company. Dean turned back to the bars.

"I can't promise anything, but I'll look out for him."

Balthazar nodded. "That's all I can ask."

* * *

The arena surged with demonic energy, the walls not thick enough to muffle the excited buzz of the crowd. Castiel wrapped his wrists and tightened the supports on his hands while Sam saw to his ankles and feet. Dean paced just inside the door of the locker room.

"Is it ready?" The older Winchester fixed Castiel with a look, one Castiel could not place. He'd hadn't spoken with Dean much, terse orders and silent obedience the usual order of things in the cell block. Now the Righteous Man had taken interest in his plight, and Castiel was suspicious.

"Relax, Dean." Sam tied off the last of Castiel's wrappings and sat back on his heels. "How do those feel, too tight?"

Castiel shook his head. "They are fine."

"They need to be better than fine," Dean said, starting forward. Sam stood and moved in front of Castiel to block his brother from undoing the twenty minutes of careful wrapping in order to redo it.

"Chill, Dean. He's got this, I told you." Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean frowned.

"It's going up against Hasmal," Dean said. "That one'll take it apart if it's not ready."

Hasmal. Castiel looked down at his hands. His sister was a fearsome fighter, and he could only imagine what she would be capable of in the ring. He stood, flexing both hands and feet to make sure he had optimal range of movement. Satisfied, he rolled his shoulders and nodded at Sam before tugging the tank top over his head. The less handholds he offered, the better.

"I will be fine," Castiel said.

"You're not exactly inspiring confidence," Dean said. He frowned, then sighed and sagged back. "All right, we don't have any real time to back you out anyway. Good luck, I guess."

Castiel fixed Dean with his gaze for a moment. "I am not afraid."

"Never said you were. Give 'em hell, and you might just make it." Dean looked down at the stained concrete floor of the locker room and gave an uncomfortable shuffle of his feet.

"Yes," Castiel said, turning for the door that led to the arena. The waiting room was nearer to the fighting floor than anything else, and the thump and murmur of the crowd grew louder as he approached the ring. Sam walked beside him; Dean had disappeared, perhaps to report to Crowley. Castiel couldn't say.

Sam walked into the ring first, and Castiel followed. He wasn't prepared for the wall of sound that greeted him. Thousands of demons packed the stands, shoved themselves into humans of every size and shape in order to walk the earth once more. The crowd roared as he entered, jeering at the new fighter with boos and hisses that ricocheted around the concrete walls of the arena and deafened him with their intensity. His heart thrummed in his chest, adrenalin surging through him at the waves of hostile intent that speared him from all directions.

Sam stood to one side as his handler, and Castiel walked forward, careful to step over the divot dug into the concrete floor. It was filled with oil, glistening in the bright overhead spotlights, and Castiel stood at the very edge, judging the distance around the ring. It was wide, wide enough to accommodate even his highest jumps, and at his estimation, about thirty feet in diameter. The divot was a circle, filled with oil, and would be lit when the competitors were to fight.

He straightened as he caught sight of her. He heard her, even over the crowd; her frequency shimmered to his ears as he waited there. Hasmal stepped over the divot as well, her vessel a petite brunette with her hair chopped short, wearing a sports bra and a pair of loose pants. She was tanned, lean and fit. Her feet were bare like his, and she stepped toward him at the same time he moved to greet her.

"Castiel," she said, her face falling as she realized who it was. There was sadness in her liquid-dark eyes. "Little brother, you've been captured."

"Hello, sister," he said, grasping her forearm. He could feel the raised letters on the inside of her wrist.

_Arp Urpaah_ - conquered wings.

His vessel towered over hers, and he bent his head in deference. She gave him a squeeze, and then stepped back, her expression grave.

"I cannot be lenient with you," she said, flexing her fingers. "We are…"

"You do not have to explain, sister." He nodded. "I understand. No apology is necessary."

She gave him a curt nod and they retreated to their respective sides as Crowley stood up and stepped to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his smooth accent washing over the crowd and hushing them. They fell silent and he continued. "Tonight, we have a special treat for you from our favorite hunters."

There were jeers and titters from the crowd at this. Castiel winced as a spotlight flashed on above his head, bathing him in harsh light.

"Straight from a dilapidated farm house in Nebraska, the angel Castiel has decided to join in our little game," Crowley said, to more laughter. "Tonight, he faces Hasmal, the Torch of the East, the Living Flame! Can he survive his first matchup, or will he be barbeque?"

Two demons bearing torches stepped forward, one on either side of the ring, and touched the flames to the ring of oil. The crackle of flame rushed around the ring, bathing the combatants in lurid, dancing shadows as the demons cheered. Castiel felt the heat on his bare back, and sweat broke out on his skin as he moved forward, away from the flames and toward Hasmal.

The beat of drums echoed through the loudspeakers, the familiar rhythm that had become a part of him in his long training sessions. He dropped into a bobbing crouch, circling around Hasmal, who paced in the opposite direction, sizing him up. She was small and agile, balanced on the balls of her feet and moving with a catlike grace that he would admire were he not the one facing her in combat.

He leapt out of the way in surprise as her cheeks distended and a great gout of flame painted the air where he had been standing. He scrambled around the ring as the flame followed him, shimmering heat at his back as he tucked and rolled away. He squirmed to the side as the flame chased him, ducking beneath it and going in the opposite direction. The crowd jeered as he sprang away, landing on the balls of his feet as Hasmal's flame died. He felt the faint twitch of his wings at his back as he neared the flame ring.

Hasmal breathed in again, and Castiel leapt straight up, his feet trailed by the flame gout as she tracked his progress. He arced down in a streak of flame, his heel missing her face by inches as she dodged his kick. He lashed his leg out in a sweep as he rolled away, connecting with her ankle and sending her stumbling as he recovered.

There was a collective gasp as she went careening toward the ring of holy fire, but she corrected her course and whipped around. He bounced to the beat, his hands clenching and unclenching as he waited for his opening. She prowled closer, her eyes on him as he danced toward her.

He leapt forward again, and the flame seared his right side before he could correct himself. He lashed his foot out, catching her in the ribs with a sickening crunch. The flame died with a cry as she staggered away. He could feel the blister forming as he clutched his side. The smell of singed flesh reached his nostrils and he felt his stomach roil.

Hasmal righted herself and leaped in, her fist connecting with Castiel's shoulder as he bent backward to avoid the brunt of the blow. It was still brutal, sending him reeling. He went sliding, rolling in a haphazard sprawl toward the edge of the flames. The cries and shouts of the audience were no longer audible; all he heard was his ragged breathing as he rolled to his feet. He jumped again, his wings giving him a short boost and he rocketed down toward her, his heel landing on her collarbone in a violent crunch of bone.

Hasmal screamed and dropped to her knees. He landed on his feet and kicked off on her chest, rolling away as she sent another long burst of flame at him. His bandaged feet smoked, the cloth seared from the angel's fiery breath. She fell to all fours, struggling to stand. Her arms trembled as she spat blood onto the concrete; it ran from her nose in a torrent as she fixed her dark eyes on his bright blue ones.

The crowd was chanting; Castiel shook his head and tried to clear it so he could understand. The haze of adrenaline coursing through his system made it hard to concentrate. His music was muted, and he realized Crowley was speaking.

"How about it, folks?" Crowley asked. "They both look pretty beat to hell, if you'll pardon the expression. Does he go in for the kill?"

_Kill kill kill kill kill kill-_

The chant was almost as hypnotic as his drumbeats, and far more insistent. He knelt in front of her, his hand on her shoulder, and she shook her head.

"You can't disobey them," she said, her voice a wheeze. "They'll kill us both."

"I won't kill you," he said. "What have we come to, sister?"

"The end," she said, and her hand snapped out to seize his wrist. She stood, her knees wobbly, and dragged him towards the flames. Castiel tried to pull away, but her fingers were a band of iron around his wrist and her pull was inexorable. She was strong, impossible for such a small frame, and he struggled in vain to pry her fingers loose.

"Hasmal," he said, his heels digging in to the concrete of the ring. The flames around the ring leapt higher, as though hungry to taste his essence. His voice took a desperate edge as the neared the edge. "Don't do this."

"I have to," she said. "I am sorry, Castiel."

"As am I," he said, his heel connecting with the back of her knee. She screamed as his foot cracked her kneecap, and her hold loosened a fraction. He kicked her again, and she staggered forward, letting go of his arm. His foot landed with a solid thump in the small of her back, and she fell into the flames with an anguished scream.

Hasmal ignited in a gout of pure white flame, brighter than the phosphorus used to mark him, the holy oil consuming her essence as she wailed. There was a deafening pop as the air left the room, then returned in a rush to fill the space that the angel had been moments before. Castiel fell to his knees, his head in his hands as he felt the piece of him that was connected to Hasmal wither on the vine. It was a hole, an emptiness that had never been there before, and he mourned because he had put it there.

He had done it to himself.

The crowd recoiled, quiet and blinded by the death of the angel. Then, with a swell of sound, they were on their feet, roaring their approval to the arena's steel beamed ceiling. The applause was a torrent of noise that Castiel did not hear, and he stared at the place where his sister had been moments before, until the demons extinguished the fire and Sam helped him to his feet. The larger man wrapped an arm around the angel's shoulders and guided him from the arena. They passed Dean, and the older Winchester locked eyes with him for a moment, before turning away, his eyebrows knit in a frown as his shoulders slumped.

No one mentioned the tears that tracked down his face, and Sam settled him on his cot. He turned on his side and faced the wall. Balthazar hummed comforting things from across the hall in Enochian, pure sound that flowed between them like a warm, calming wave, but Castiel remained silent.

_Forgive me, Hasmal._

_**Murderer**_.

_**Are you not your sister's keeper**__?_

_**What have you become**__?_

He could not answer himself. He remained awake long after lights out, the hole in his heart burning bright.

* * *

A/N: More Gladius for you over the weekend. Recuperationg from a month at the job over the three day weekend. Apologies for the slow updates, but a lot of time has been eaten up with real life stuff. Still more to come, though.

Enjoy, Constant Readers.

Lywinis


	4. Crucible

**Gladius**

**A Supernatural AU by Lywinis**

** (Original idea by Astroize on tumblr)**

** Chapter Four**

* * *

"Wake up."

The voice came through the bars, and Castiel ignored it. He hadn't slept in the past two days; napping in fits and starts prevented the nightmares that his now mortal brain tormented him with. He could hear his sister's screams when he closed his eyes, feel the heat of the lit oil on his face. He woke shaking, soaked in sweat and grasping at his wrists as if to throw Hasmal's grip from his arm once more.

It should have been him.

He should not be here.

"I said, wake up."

More insistent now, the voice forced itself into his thoughts. He rolled over, wincing as his seared side came into contact with the rough linen sheets. The bandages Sam had put on the wound needed changing. The skin had blistered, become raw and tender, and the cloth pads needed to be changed lest the burn become infected. Castiel suppressed a snort. Infection taking him now would be the ultimate irony.

"Good, you haven't decided to curl up and die on me, at least." Castiel looked up to find Dean staring down at him through the bars of his cell.

"Go away."

"No."

Castiel turned and faced the wall. "If you're not here to kill me, get out."

"Shut the fuck up." The rattling of keys in the lock and the clacking slide of the door as it opened didn't rouse Castiel's interest. "Your bandage needs changing."

"Let it rot."

Dean gave an exasperated sigh. "You really think I want to nurse you back to health? You're a fucking baby, whining about how it's so tough being where you are. Got news for you, dude, the apocalypse happened. Everybody's got it bad. I know, because I started it."

His voice caught on the last words, causing Castiel to look up. He knew the prophecy by rote; two brothers born into this world to be the vessels for his brothers' final battle on this earth. They would usher in the end of the world, freeing their Father's creations to the heaven they so deserved. Michael and Lucifer would battle, and Lucifer would lose.

Except it hadn't happened quite that way.

The Righteous Man, Dean Winchester, the human that stood before him glaring at him as though he were a petulant child, had done his part. He had gone to hell to save his brother, but something in him had changed when he was pulled from the lake of fire. Castiel had no idea if it was Uriel's influence or perhaps just the famous Winchester stubborn streak, but Dean had not allowed Michael to take him as his vessel. He had denied the angel his weapon. His brother, following Dean's lead, had done the same.

The world was in limbo. The stalemate caused by the refusal to fulfill the prophecy was tearing both heaven and hell apart. Angels warred with one another just as much as they warred with demons, vying for power in the vacuum left by Michael, Gabriel, and Lucifer. Demons roamed the earth, torturing the innocent in their search for everything they'd always wanted.

Castiel couldn't bring himself to care any longer.

He realized he was staring at Dean, but the hunter met his gaze with tired eyes, unflinching. Dark circles ringed the man's eyes, bruised and weary, the symptom of sleepless nights. Castiel caught the scent of stale beer, saw the tinge of yellow in the whites there, knew what it meant. Dean drank himself to sleep; if that didn't work, he didn't sleep.

_Everyone has their ways of coping_, Castiel thought to himself. It could not be easy, being one of two actual humans surrounded by the very things they had been raised to snuff out. Castiel had seen no other humans that weren't either being used as an angel's vessel or a demon's suit. He frowned, looking away.

"I can wait all day. I got nothing else to do."

He sighed, lifting his tank top off his body, revealing the gauze that Sam had wrapped around his chest to hold the cloth pad to his side. He raised his arm to give the hunter access to his side. Dean sat next to him on the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. He carried a first aid kit, the gauze and clean cloth pad coupled with the polysporin enough to dress the wound. To his surprise, Dean rose again and washed his hands in the sink, scrubbing under his nails and patting them dry on a clean towel before he touched the gauze on the angel's skin.

Castiel hissed in pain as Dean tried to lift the gauze pad from the burn on his side.

"Damn it," Dean muttered. He rose, turning on the hot tap and soaking a towel in the warm water. "Lay on your side, it's stuck. I need to soften the bandage."

Castiel did as he was told, propping his head on his pillow, his gaze fixed on the far wall. He had grown heavy with muscle over the past six months; he had no doubt he could rush the human standing at the sink and free himself, but to what end? He could not escape the complex. He had no idea where the exits were, and there were too many of his brothers and sisters captured for him to think about trying. He ground his teeth as the warm, wet cloth was placed against the gauze glued to his side.

"You'll be all right in a few days," Dean said. "If not, we can have someone take another look at your side."

The silence stretched, like a thread about to snap. Dean seemed content with ignoring Castiel's stubborn silence. Castiel could catch a glimpse of work-roughened hands or hear the creak of the man's leather boots. The quiet stretched out forever, and Castiel's keen ears could pick up Balthazar in the next cell over, his breathing deep and even as he slept.

He could hear Balthazar shifting in sleep. He had seen his brother's legs a day ago. One more thing he couldn't prevent. He grit his teeth again. Dean sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. He reached into the kit and found a pair of latex gloves. He put them on and checked for the telltale softness that would allow him to pull up the gauze.

Castiel frowned as the warmth of the water soaked through to his skin. Dean tapped out a beat on his knee as he waited, content to let Castiel sulk.

"Where is Sam?" Castiel curled his legs up and kept his eyes on the far wall. Dean's hands were gentle, careful not to push or prod the burn too much as he tested the bandage for give. There was a wet slurp as the gauze came free, but there was no pain save for the slight tug as the last corner pulled away from his skin.

"Business meeting with Crowley," said Dean. He snorted, a soft sound that ghosted past Castiel's awareness. "Your blisters have ruptured. Gross. Gonna have to clean this up. Don't squirm."

A cloth was dipped in the warm water, and Dean rubbed a bar of soap with it, lathering it up. He pressed it around the wound, rubbing the skin clean while being as gentle as possible.

"Why are you here?" Castiel said, his eyes still turned toward the wall as Dean worked. "You could have left this for Sam."

Dean had never touched Castiel before. He never seemed interested in the angel's welfare, leaving the majority of the training and nutrition to Sam. He never touched the angels if he could help it, save to snap their cuffs on to change the sheets. Yet, here he was, cleaning Castiel's wound with the same care he had seen Dean show Sam.

"Can't. Sam's busy. Shit's gotta get done, and if I don't, someone else will, and they'll probably fuck it up." Dean inspected the wound, the skin bright red and shiny. Castiel looked too, and saw it was a long strip across his ribs, fading down. Hasmal's last gift to him. He swallowed and looked away.

"It's not too bad," Dean said, applying the polysporin cream. "Shouldn't scar too bad. You took a beating, though."

"Not bad enough," he said. "I still breathe in this cage."

"And here I thought _you_ were sour, Peach Pit." Castiel looked up to see a woman standing at the door to his cell, her arms folded as her dark hair fell in her eyes. He could sense the corruption, and flexed his fingers, resisting the urge to scramble upright.

"Fuck off, Meg." Dean laid the clean gauze pad across the burn. "Sit up so I can bind this."

"Aww, but Dean, I wanted to see your little pet! Not every day my favorite crusty hunter gets all soft and goopy over one of Crowley's toys." The woman let a chuckle loose, pushing her hair out of her face. The demon's chosen form was pretty, in a way. Castiel regarded her in silence as Dean tied off his bandages.

"And here I thought you never left the kitchen." Dean packed up the first aid kit and glared at Meg. "Get out, you know how _he_ feels about his kids snooping around the barracks. Daddy's gun cabinet isn't safe for little girls to play in. Run along back to the bar."

Meg snorted. "Fine. I'm here because Alastair wants to see you."

Dean's spine became like iron, and Castiel could hear the brittle touch in his voice as he gave a curt nod. "I'll be there."

"Make sure you don't linger too long. You know how he hates to wait." Meg seemed to repress a shudder of her own, but turned and slipped away. She waggled her fingers at Castiel before she left, grinning at him like she had a secret he was privy to as she walked away.

Dean sighed and dumped out the water into the sink before he cleaned up the soiled bandages. "It's healing okay, just avoid laying on that side, if you can."

"You hate him," Castiel said. It wasn't a question.

"More than anything on Earth," Dean said. "More than you."

Castiel was left to ponder this as Dean locked the cell and strode away.

* * *

The prison's infirmary looked like an abattoir. Blood was rusty on the walls, splattered there by a madman's brush. Dean ignored the gore, stepping over the congealing pools and making his way to the back office. There were no bodies; Alastair always worked in singles, and he never let his guests know what was coming.

That was part of the allure, part of the terror. Alastair was personal; he was able to cut you open from the inside out before he ever broke out the tools. The tools were just his way of finishing. Your happy ending after the main event. Alastair was considerate like that.

Dean felt his skin start to crawl, and he willed himself still, firmed his jaw against the chattering of his teeth. He remembered how it felt, how well Alastair knew all the things that would hurt him the most. With his whispered words, his commands to give in, there was always the threat of him going after Sam. It was never an outright statement, but the way Alastair had driven right against the heart of him, torn it out and dissected it while it beat and bled out on the table in front of him, it got to you. He knew Dean in a way no one ever could, and the hunter repressed the sick thrill that shot down his spine.

**He remembered how it felt.**

**He remembered how the razor fit in his hand like it was an extension of his arm.**

**He remembered how all his victims looked like Sam.**

**He remembered how he _enjoyed_ it.**

He shook his head, trembling as he approached the closed office door. He rapped on the glass.

"Come in."

The quavery voice sent a chill across his skin. He'd scoffed when he first heard Alastair speak; that was before the demon had gone to work on him. He sounded like Don Corleone with a head cold, but there, underneath the comical voice, was a menace that wasn't apparent until it was far too late, like the undertow in a peaceful bay.

Dean opened the door. Alastair sat, hands folded, looking every inch the pediatrician waiting for his next patient. He gave a warm smile that set Dean's stomach roiling.

"Come in, my boy," Alastair said, his eyes crinkling in fondness. "Have a seat. Would you like a drink?"

"What did you need, Alastair?" Dean slumped into the chair, feeling the demon's eyes raking over him as though Alastair was checking for weakness. It was a futile exercise; Alastair already knew the darkest nooks and crannies, and well enough to exploit them with no mercy. Dean gripped the arms of the chair with white knuckles.

"You never stop to chat, son, and that's a shame," Alastair grouched, but smiled again, baring yellowing teeth before he reached into the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. "I have more deliveries for you to make."

Dean picked up the sheet that Alastair slid over to him. On it was a list of names, all belonging to the C wing. Dean swallowed.

"One at a time again, like last time?"

Alastair nodded. "Make sure you lash them down good. One of the last batch got free, and it got...messy."

Dean rose. "All right."

"You sure you don't want to stick around, for old times' sake?" Alastair was pleasant, but the offer turned his stomach.

"No." Dean rose, almost too fast, almost losing his balance and skidding into the desk and across it. He straightened, catching himself, and headed to the door, shoulders stiff.

"Pity, you were the best student I've had in centuries," Alastair leaned back in his chair. "Hurry back, now."

Dean couldn't repress the wince as he closed the door behind him and made his way to C Wing.

* * *

The C Wing was the largest wing of the prison, housing the general inmate population before the war. Now, however, it housed angels.

Or what had once been angels.

These were broken remnants, the lame and the mad. The branding drove them insane, made them mortal in entirety, or cut them off from their powers so much that they might as well be human. They shuffled around their cells, each one different, and yet each one blurring into another under Dean's vision. The demons fed these, tossing scraps and cast offs to them for them to squabble and fight over.

Dean paced down the long metal walkway, passing cell after cell. He knew which ones Alastair wanted, and he cursed the demon for choosing the ones so close to the center. As soon as he entered the complex, the more unhinged angels began gibbering at him, howling as they clutched at him through the bars of their cells, heedless of the sigils that scorched their skin. He shrugged them off and kept to the rail as much as he could, avoiding the large cage suspended in the center of the room.

He didn't look in the cage, but he could feel the occupant staring at him, eyes boring into him. It would have been unsettling if he hadn't numbed himself to it months ago. He would not look. He kept his eyes from sliding to the cage.

Somehow, Adam Milligan's eyes met his as he passed the cage. Dean would swear that he was looking at the floor, the other inmates, anything but his half-brother as he passed the cage. The pale blue reflected Dean's gaze back to him a thousand fold, Adam's eyes unearthly as the being behind them.

"Dean." There was no accusation there, only a greeting. Michael stood in the center of the cage, as he always did. Dean had no idea how he could find the exact center every time, but he did. Just like the archangel could find his face in a crowded arena, he seemed unfazed by the multitude of scarred brands that crawled up and down his arms and across his back like macabre ivy. Words of power, words of binding, curses and invectives carved there by Alastair and Crowley. Lucifer had watched, his face blank, as Michael screamed.

"Michael." Dean couldn't help himself. He had spent far too much time in this room over the last eight months.

"Alastair needs more, doesn't he?"

Dean swallowed. "Yes."

Michael sighed, the sadness in his eyes apparent. "We could have stopped this, you and I."

"Too late for what might have been," Dean said, giving a half-shrug. "The answer would still be no, even if you weren't bent on destroying my brother from the inside out."

"You didn't seem to care so much when you left him."

"I came back."

"You were late." There was no malice in the tone, only acceptance. Michael had long come to terms with Adam on the subject, even before the brands cut off his link with his human host.

"Yeah, I somehow always am. Too late to save Sammy, too late to save Dad, too young to save Mom. Too late for Bobby, or Adam." Dean grit his teeth at the admission, guilt flooding up like the backlash from a storm drain during a flood. He still felt that panic when he looked at Sam, that helpless, hopeless, _hollow _sense that he would never get it right.

"Adam didn't blame you, Dean." Michael's voice was not unkind; he turned his face to the shaft of light that illuminated his cage, keeping him visible. The cage was wrought spring steel with silver runes carved into the bars, just like all the others. There was the added measure of suspending him on the second story, away from the railings, and keeping the cage small and cramped for added discomfort.

Crowley had thought it hilarious when he had Michael strung up in the midst of his slobbering, demented brothers and sisters. The demons tossed food to keep them stirred up, and Dean knew that Michael did not get much sleep. The cage was wide enough to sit tailor-style, but not much bigger. Michael had never, to Dean's recollection, been seen sitting, however. He was always standing, in the center of the cage, waiting to speak to him.

"You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better," Dean said, his grin wide and humorless, a slash on his face, teeth white behind cracked lips.

"I say it because it is the truth." Michael rolled his shoulders, the phosphorus brands rolling like waves with the motion of his muscles. "Adam never knew you, but he didn't blame you. He was very brave to say yes to me."

"Bet he regrets it now," Dean said, turning away to collect Alastair's first guest.

"He wanted nothing more than to help. He cannot be faulted for that." Michael gave a faint smile. "He is just as stubborn as his father and brothers, in some respects."

Dean shrugged and unlocked the cell closest to the cage. "It runs in the family."

"So it does. Goodbye, Dean."

Dean bound the inmate's hands behind it, the mortal angel jerking against the bonds like an animal. He hoped he wouldn't have to gag this one. Last thing he needed was a biter. He ushered the broken angel through the cellblock, the howls of its inmates and Michael's gaze following him out the door and into the warm summer night.

* * *

Sam sat in the plush visitor's chair, uneasy as Crowley went through his reports. He kept tabs on food and maintenance around the prison yard, and his margins were higher than ever. Crowley squinted at the expenses, his lips pursed.

"Seven thousand just on food alone, on top of what the others eat," he said, musing to himself as Sam frowned. "Are you still feeding C block?"

"No, your lackeys throw them leftovers." Sam _had_ been feeding them, but had balanced the numbers to account for it. "Upkeep is the main concern. We're going to have to forge into Croat territory in order to get more supplies for repairs. The towns around here are tapped out."

Crowley's frown deepened. Even demons avoided the rabid Croat packs that ravaged the major metropolises. The demon virus couldn't infect them, but if a hungry pack fell on a lone demon, or even two or three, there was no guarantee that the demons would escape with their chosen meatsuit intact.

"What about Yarborough?" he asked. "I thought there was a quarry there."

"Tapped out a month ago. Repairs were needed on the stadium, and it ate through what stone and other materials we had. The riot after the Uriel/Camphiel match did a lot of damage to the infrastructure."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. Sam remembered the punishments being meted out. Alastair had been happy to oblige the irate games master, and the screams had been broadcast over the loudspeaker system. Sam and Dean didn't sleep well for a week.

"Wilford?"

"Timber, but nothing like the stone we found in Yarborough. We could raid a couple of hardware stores for quickcrete, but it's no good for the big jobs like the stadium." Sam shrugged. "We have the manpower, but without the materials, this place will fall apart."

"Bloody demons," Crowley muttered. The demon population of the place ebbed and flowed based on what Crowley had planned, but there were anywhere from three to five hundred lesser demons on site at any given time. Restless demons did two things: drink and gamble. The fights had been a partial measure to keep their bloodlust in check, but it also made Crowley wealthy. Most demons didn't use actual currency, and so they traded favors.

Sam knew no one wanted to owe Crowley. There was no telling what he'd cash his chips in on.

Crowley tapped the map of the area. White shaded areas were overrun, filled with ravening packs of Croatoan zombies. Major cities would have supplies, things Crowley's supply chains couldn't get without a lot of trouble, like building materials. He sat, deep in thought, while Sam waited to hear if he and Dean would be doing this supply run themselves. It wouldn't be the first time; demons saved them the hard labor.

"Millville, then," Crowley said. Sam nodded. From what he knew of the area, there were several warehouses that served construction sites, providing brick and mortar for building, as well as a new place to scavenge for canned food and parts for the water pumps. The prison freezers were spacious, and demons had no trouble bringing in game, but there were other necessities that needed to be seen to, and Crowley enjoyed his creature comforts. Meg would probably need a liquor run for the bar, and Dean would more than likely squirrel away some in a private stash. Sam frowned at the thought.

"I'll send Gomez and his crew tomorrow morning." Crowley made a note of it in his appointment book. "How's your pet?"

"Castiel hasn't eaten in three days, and he barely sleeps." Sam frowned. "I think the one fight is the most you'll get out of him."

"No," said Crowley. "I trusted you two goons with this, and you'll not screw it up, Moose. He's made me almost as much as when Michael used to fight. They like him. You'll have him ready to fight again once his wounds have healed."

"He'll fry himself before he does."

"I think not. He hates me too much." There was a feral sort of pleasure on Crowley's face. Sam felt the mild irritation he held for Crowley boil over into overt dislike. "He'll fight, and you'll be the one to convince him. Tell him whatever you have to, I want him back in that ring posthaste."

Sam sighed. "Fine."

"If he suicides, consider your work schedule cleared for six months." Crowley's smile was bland. "Better get down there and hop to it, before he finds you."

Sam didn't need to be told twice. "You have a meeting with him?"

"If I can find him, yes. Go on, get back to work." Crowley flicked a hand at him, and Sam did as he was told, his steps heavy as he descended the stairs to cellblock A.

* * *

How could he convince Castiel to fight again when killing one angel left him near comatose? He and Dean would have to find the answer, and soon. He sighed as he looked down into the cellblock. All was quiet, but that could mean anything.

Balthazar was awake when Sam unlocked the door. He leaned against the bars, his expression lazy. Sam nodded to him, and received a grunt in acknowledgement. Castiel was facing the wall, his arms pillowed on his knees as he stared at nothing.

Sam had no idea how he was going to convince the angel to fight again.

"Castiel's been like that for days now." Balthazar threaded his arms through the bars of his cell and leaned on them. "I told you it was a shock, and there were those of us who couldn't handle it."

"I know," Sam replied. He glanced into the cell to find Castiel watching him. "But it's his best chance to survive."

"I only want to survive long enough to kill Crowley," said Castiel, his voice flat. All inflection was gone from the angel's voice. Sam repressed a shudder at the promise in that tone.

"If you don't fight, you may not get that chance." Sam folded his arms, a frown creasing his features.

"He's right, Cassy," said Balthazar. "As much as I hate to agree with a Winchester, he has a point."

Castiel didn't reply, he just turned his face to the wall again. Sam looked at Balthazar, who shrugged and hobbled back to his cot. The hunter rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation and went to find his brother, leaving the two angels to their own devices.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

* * *

A/N: Have some more Gladius, Constant Readers. I'm moving all this week, so updates are sporadic, as they have been. Hope you enjoy the chapter, however!

Till next time,

Lywinis


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